The Eye of the Beholder (42 page)

"That is indeed wise."

"What I am is of my own making. I wanted to blame you, but that is because I had no desire to face what I was. It was easier to blame others."

"Why did you feel you could command such power?" She studied me intently, listening carefully to every word I spoke.

"Perhaps because I felt so powerless as a child. But that does not excuse my behavior."

"Nay, it does not, but in order to change, it is essential to understand the reasons behind one's behavior."

I sighed deeply. "Though I was a man then, I behaved as a child. I wanted to inflict pain on others because pain had been inflicted upon me. I wanted control."

"And do you no longer wish for control?"

"I never had control. That was an illusion, a lie that I convinced myself was truth." I laughed bitterly and gazed out over the gardens. "But to answer your question, nay, I do not wish for control. Even if I did wish for it, I know now that it is fruitless. One can never truly have control."

"Do you regret this?"

"Nay," I answered honestly. "I know now that it is the nature of men to wish for things that they would not truly want, were they to understand the true nature of their wish."

"What has taught you this lesson?"

"Mira." The name was like a plea. "She did not teach it to me in words. I do not know that she even meant to teach me. It was what I felt for her, what I experienced when she was with me that taught me."

"How so?"

"There is no control when I am around her. I thought I could command my heart, but she showed me that I cannot. I did not mean to fall in love with her. I meant only to use her for my own means. She proved to me that I cannot command everyone as I wish. Indeed, I have not even command over myself."

"That is love," the enchantress said. "In order to love, one must learn to cede command. I did not decree that you must find love to punish you. I know much, but the future is often unclear even to me. That is because I cannot command either, because man has the power to make his own choices, choices that sometimes even I do not anticipate."

I thought this over for some time. It was not that I had thought of Oriantha as all-powerful, but it still seemed to me rather unsettling that even she could not predict the outcome, the consequences, of the choices others would make.

"Had I control, she would have loved me in return," I whispered, feeling at that moment the full power of my own impotence.

"Would this have been a love worth having?"

"Nay. It could not even be called love. I would rather not have the power to command if it meant that I could have forced her to feel something she would not otherwise have felt. I wished her to love me of her own volition."

"I could not know what the ultimate outcome of your falling in love would be, and I would not wish this upon you. Perhaps you will find this surprising, but my nature is not vindictive. It is simply my duty to show men the error of their ways."

"I believe you. My punishment is of my own making. It has always been of my own making. I do not deserve happiness, after all I have done. I never deserved Mira's love, and I was foolish to think that I might win it."

"Edward, I believe all men deserve a chance at redemption," she said, laying one slender hand on my shoulder. As she did, I felt compassion flow through me, as warm and soothing as a blazing fire on a cold day, as comforting as a mother's caress. "I would not have visited you if not to offer you that chance."

"I am grateful to you." I knelt before her, lifting the hem of her gown and kissing it.

"I am sorry, truly sorry for you, Edward. You have changed, and I would not wish unhappiness upon you now. I, too, am powerless, for I can do nothing to relieve you of your unhappiness."

"No one could, but it has been a comfort to me to see you again."

"There is little time left to you now." Her voice was sorrowful. "I have extended your life to the limits of my power. I can delay nature, but I cannot override her. She will eventually claim her own. I could only offer you the chance to be reborn in love. Do you understand this? Your form, your life, they are all tied to the Edward you were. Had Mira returned your love, you could have been made anew."

"I understand. Even if it were within your power, I would not ask it of you. You gave me much more than I understood. I wish with all my heart that Mira would have loved me, but I would choose the pain of losing her a thousand times over the pain of never having known her."

"I shall not forget you, Edward, king of Organdy. There are those I attempt to assist, but who go to their graves never having learned a thing from me. I shall mourn your passing, but there is some balm in knowing that I was able to help you."

"You helped me indeed, my lady," I said.

"Go gently," she said, bending down to kiss me lightly atop my head. Though nothing could erase the pain of Mira's loss, Oriantha had brought me some comfort. I would hold onto our meeting until my last breath, and would feel some sense of relief as I passed, knowing that she had seen what was in my heart.

"Goodbye, my lady," I said to her. My eyes grew weary. I was so tired. I felt it a breach of manners, but I could no longer support my weight, and I sank back down upon the ground. It felt as soft and yielding as a feather mattress.

"Goodbye, Edward," she said, her voice growing faint.

She was lovely, my lady Oriantha, but it was not her face I would have wished to be my last sight. However, I longed to keep my eyes open, so that I could at least die gazing upon her rather than gazing upon nothingness. I wanted to struggle against oblivion, but I had not the strength for it. The blackness was pulling me down, and I could feel a terrible cold seeping into my limbs.

Thus dies Edward, King of Organdy, forsaken and alone,
I thought, for it was Edward who was returning to nature. Lysander had died the moment Mira had fled the castle.

Chapter 40: Somewhere to Belong

As I recovered my health, I did my best to fall back into my old routines. I gardened, cooked, baked, cleaned, and spent as much time as possible with Papa. Though I felt some peace, I could not deny that I also felt a certain degree of restlessness. I would sometimes lose myself, forgetting what I was supposed to be doing and finding myself staring blankly at my surroundings. There was a sort of unreality to my life now, a feeling that I was somehow removed from it and watching it from some sort of distance.

I tried my best to ignore this feeling, to simply throw myself into my old life while doing my best to forget that I had ever known anything different. Naturally, Papa was very curious about my time with Lysander, and even my sisters could not help but be interested. When they questioned me, I usually answered quite tersely. I could see that my sisters were soon satisfied that I would not rave about the beast to any of the other villagers, thus placing a black mark on their reputations, while Papa seemed to think I was too upset by the memories to care to relive them.

Though I would dearly have loved to pour my heart out to Papa, to beg his assistance in making heads or tails of my emotions, I was reluctant to speak with him because I could see he found it difficult to believe me. He did not think me a liar; he simply could not understand how I could have found Lysander's company remotely agreeable. Whenever I mentioned him by my name for him, a look of utter bewilderment would cross Papa's face. The more it happened, the more reluctant I became to share anything with him.

At night, I often dreamed of Lysander. Sometimes the dreams were more like reliving memories of the times he and I had shared. Other times, the dreams were strange. I was able to hear Lysander and to feel his presence, but I was unable to see him. A sea of faces separated us and, even though he should have been very distinct, I could not locate him in the crowd. Most infrequently, but most disturbingly, I had dreams of him alone in that cold, empty castle. I saw him sitting listlessly and felt an overwhelming sense of culpability for having abandoned him. I invariably awoke from these dreams with my heart pounding, my throat aching, and my pillow soaked with tears.

If only I had been braver and had not fled from Lysander. If only I had found the courage to examine my feelings, to try to decipher their meaning. I had endured so much that I had never before thought of myself as weak-willed. Ever since I had left Lysander, though, I had the nagging sense that I was a coward.

"You seem a million miles away," Papa remarked, as I was indulging myself in such thoughts one evening. He was reading before the fire as I carded wool, an activity I had done so many times over the years I thought I could probably do it in my sleep. It was too mindless, for it allowed me far too much leisure to think.

"Forgive me," I said, blinking and looking at him. I was vaguely aware that Papa had asked me a question, but I could not for the life of me think of what it was. "I am poor company."

Papa hesitated, studying my face carefully. "Dearest Mira, you have been poor company more and more often of late."

His words caused my shoulder to tighten, and I had to bite back a defensive response. "There is much on my mind," I settled for saying.

"I imagine there is." Papa thumbed a few pages before looking up at me. "I know your thoughts weigh upon you heavily, and it saddens me that you will not speak to me. You have always shared everything with me. Would your mind not be easier if it was unburdened?"

"There is nothing of which I need to speak, I assure you. If there was, I would tell you."

Papa sighed. "Please, Mira, will you not be honest with me?"

"What would you have me say?" I cried, the words bursting from me out of sheer frustration. "I certainly would not expect Rowena and Thomasina to understand, but even you cannot. You have your own thoughts about what I experienced, and nothing I say can dissuade you."

Setting his book aside, Papa placed a steadying hand over mine. I had not even realized I was shredding the wool, but when I looked down at his hand, I saw the bits scattered over my skirt. "I fear you came to… identify with this beast. It is understandable, certainly, for who else was there? But, Mira, what he did, what he is…"

"You have no idea what he did or what he is," I exploded, leaping from my chair. Papa started, his expression pained and, though I felt a flicker of regret for my outburst, I simply could no longer contain my emotions. "You speak as though I am some sort of saint for having endured his presence. You do not like that I gave him a name. You believe you know what he is like, but you know nothing. Do not try to tell me what I saw, what I experienced, for you know nothing of it." Turning my back on him, I burst into loud, wracking sobs.

Papa placed a hand on my shoulder. "Mira, you are unwell. Please, sweet, allow me to…"

"Leave me be!" Forcefully, I pulled myself away from him. "Oh, what have I done?"

I felt as though I would burst, and I could no longer bear the oppressive atmosphere of the cottage. Blinded by my tears, I turned and fled through the door, the night air like a slap against my wet cheeks, Papa shouting behind me. It was dusk, and the light was rapidly fading. I could no longer bear the pain of what I had done, and it was made all the more acute by the knowledge that Papa did not understand what I felt for Lysander.

Why should he? He is not at fault; I am. He does not know the truth about Lysander, but I do, and still I left him.

Running was difficult, I was so overcome with sorrow and shame over what I had done. I pushed myself, running desperately, my father in pursuit. I hardly knew where my feet were taking me, but I looked up and saw through my tears that I was not far from the forest. If I could run just a little faster, just a little farther…

Suddenly, my arm was seized with jarring force, and I had no choice but to stop. My breath came in quick pants and I felt rather faint and dizzy as I looked up at my father's stricken face.

"Mira, what are you doing?" he whispered, through white lips.

"Oh, Papa, Papa," I sobbed. "I should not have left him. How could I be so foolish, so cruel, so heartless?"

"You are speaking nonsense. Come, let us return home. I shall give you something to calm you."

"Papa, I beg of you, let me go. Please." I stared desperately into his eyes.

He seemed to have trouble meeting my gaze. "I do not wish to do this to you, Mira, but what choice do I have?"

"Do you not understand?" I asked brokenly. "I love him. If you keep me from him, I shall never forgive you."